


The Ravished Minds

by Smilla



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 2009, Episode:Criss Angel is a Douchebag, Gen, M/M, SPN: Season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-23
Updated: 2010-03-23
Packaged: 2017-10-08 06:22:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/73635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smilla/pseuds/Smilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything, regret and shame and every nagging doubt, are gone, gone. Gone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ravished Minds

**Author's Note:**

> Coda for 4.12 refers to the 'safe word' scene in Criss Angel is a Douchebag. Warnings: dark!fic, mature themes and nudity, bloody imagery, memories of torture, the whole Hell jazz.  
> Thanks to dotfic for handholding and feedback, and to apreludetoanend for a great beta job even past her squicks. Both are awesome and too precious for words. Mistakes, as usual, are all mine.

**The Ravished Minds**  
*

"You came back," Chief says, smiles then adds, with a bit of wonderment, "Of all the things I wasn't expecting…"

Dean opens his arms. He came back, yes.

"Same rules as before, man. Before we start, what's your safe word?"

The man's bulky frame seems to shrivel with those words; Dean even detects a hint of shyness in the dip of his head and the appreciative looks he throws Dean's way. Must be a mama's boy, Dean thinks; he's nearly sure, knows it at gut-level. Without evidence and despite the way his look belies Dean's assumption. But what does he know, anyway, he, who's been motherless for so long.

Must be a good man, too, is Dean's second thought, and that one has no evidence either, except for the serious way the guy's willing to set the rules.

Dean's eyes keep straining back to the cat-o'-nine in his hand.

Blood rushes to Dean's temples in a deafening sound, suddenly, beyond the ability to think any single clear thought, and that's so good, it feels so good, Dean shivers long and hard. He says the first word he can think of, "Magic," in a voice that's barely audible to his own ears, doesn't stop to think that he's playing his role badly and ended saying the wrong line.

He wasn't here for this; he's pretty sure of it, even if he can't remember why he came.

Chief hears him loud and clear, though, because his back straightens. His biceps flex in some parody of swagger that would have made Dean laugh his ass off any other time. Now it only makes his throat constrict, mouth gone so dry he can't even work out some spit to wet his lips. He loosens his tie. Hates ties and their constricting knots most of the time, anyway.

The guy walks toward him, stalks, sure and ready – a complete u-turn in personality that's somehow dizzying. Or maybe it's the lack of air passing through Dean's throat that's making his head spin, as if the ground is going to melt away any time now and leave behind the floor of rotten blood and flesh Dean learned to walk on all those years ago.

"Okay, then," Chief says, "we set the rules."

There's so little light, bluish and cold, and that artificial fog worth of a magician's show, that Dean has to wonder what kind of look this place is going for. A torture lair? The colors are all wrong. Hell didn't have fog, no hint of anything resembling water in any form, liquid or gaseous, only that persistent red color of blood and the dry heat of its inextinguishable fires. Smell and sounds in here are all wrong, too.

"Hey, man, you with me?"

Dean looks at the man's face. Small eyes, and bushy eyebrows nearly covered by the hat. Smell of leather, and, under it, soap and clean sweat.

"Yes," Dean says. "Yes."

The guy narrows his eyes, or, least, Dean thinks he does. Head thrown back to take a better look at Dean, his hat and face haloed by the light coming from the main room so Dean can't see his eyes.

"You're not stoned, right? Because if you are, man, you better leave now. We're not that kind of place." He comes closer, a loud sniff and he's smelling Dean's breath.

Dean shakes his head, lets the guy do his checking. He only had one beer, more than an hour ago, going through the motions after Sam left to take his walk.

He's not blaming Sam for wanting to go. Dean wants to smash things and scream. Sam likes to walk. Dean ended up coming back here as if pulled by a crazy force. It's a night for tricks.

He keeps silent. Not sure that the moment he opens his mouth, this chance won't slip though his hands like sand. The idea that goes with it, too.

"First time, eh?" says Chief, raises his leather-clad hand, that meaty fist which is closed around the cat-o'-nine's handle and Dean can't be blamed for uselessly trying to wet his parched lips, for the way his sight hooks on the whip and lingers there.

"You like this." Not a question, no. It must be written in Dean's eyes and face how much he likes and loathes it at the same time. Not the most creative way he'd been ripped apart in Hell, but one of the first, and that tends to stick in a guy's memory.

"I can give it to you," the guy says. Soft, toneless voice, and that, _that_ is a good imitation of someone ready to deliver pain. Chief doesn't even know how close to the real deal that voice is. Enough to make sweat break out on Dean's back, a flare of heat on his neck and face.

"God, you're beautiful," Chief says. All of the sudden, he raises his other arm, his other hand, ready to touch Dean's chin. He telegraphs his intention a mile away, though, because Dean has the time to flinch back. Finds his voice again to say, "No touching."

That, for some reason, earns him a satisfied nod from the guy.

Dean knows he was right, then: he's found a good man. On some level, he regrets that he's trying to fool him and doing a good job of it, too. He doesn't regret it enough to stop, no. Not now that the idea is coalescing into some sort of form and purpose.

"But you want me to touch you with this." And suddenly the whip, with its leather fringes is on his shoulder, a parody of a caress Dean can feel even through his suit jacket and the shirt under it. Dean nods, closes his eyes and everything, regret and shame and every nagging doubt, are gone, gone. Gone.

The guy leaves it there, on Dean's shoulder, doesn't try to touch him. And that must be good, too, but Dean can't think past the new rush of blood to his head and the accompanying beat of his heart.

"We should go. That all right with you?"

Dean nods, too distracted by the way the cat slides off his shoulder smooth as oil when the man takes a step back.

"Okay, then," Chief says. "Just one last thing. You want to be tied up?"

Fear. Unadulterated fear explodes through him with the next exhalation of air. He can't do that. Not that, a sign of his cowardice, maybe. Of how fucked up he is, and all of this is. Newsflash, dude, he thinks. Everything he's done and considered in the last five minutes is fucked up and crazy. But he can't let himself be tied up.

"No, I can't do it," Dean says.

Another nod from the guy, and then they're walking through the a door and into the main room, Chief in the lead, Dean behind, eyes fixed on the ground so he doesn't have to see the scenes being played in the club. He gets flashes, though, of moans and rustling fabric, of flesh and bodies writhing sensuously on studded contraptions. Slaps and groans, hits and moans, and loud beats of the kind of music he hates, but they're a counterpoint to the beats of his heart, and soothing somehow.

After that, everything is almost too normal and practical for Dean to think too much. They walk through the main room to the far side, thick black curtains to give a pretence of privacy, chains on the walls, and other stuff Dean doesn't stop to investigate.

Chief says undress, and Dean undresses, perfectly folds his jacket and slacks on a chair, shirt and tie on top, shoes on the left. His briefs go last, and he's naked.

"I'll take care of you," the guy says. "You remember your safe word. Remember to use it if it's too much. I'll worry about making you feel good, okay?"

Dean nods, straightens his back and he's ready. Shit, he's so ready he should be scared.

"Say it again," says Chief, but it takes Dean a minute to understand what he's asking, Dean's thought processes sluggish and slow.

"Magic," says Dean. "Magic," he repeats so the guy won't get suspicious. Dean's not stoned and he's had only that single beer, drank it fast, hunched over the bar, while he played with a deck of cards. But he feels lightheaded all the same like after a full binge night, and with the lightheadedness comes the same clarity of thoughts as when he's just shy of drunk, almost there but not completely gone.

"Take a step back," the guy commands.

Dean obeys without thinking, not surprised in the least that he's willing to fall into habits acquired over years at the first chance. Not at all angry either, and that surprises him the most, that he's past the anger.

"I wasn't kidding, before," Chief continues. "You're beautiful." There's honest appreciation in those small eyes; even in the dim light, Dean can see it. He doesn't leave Dean time to react, though, before he's pointing to two knobs protruding from the wall. Maybe thirty inches of space between them, and at Dean's shoulders' height. They're curved upward; the handles are black, furrowed, to accommodate his fingers much like a bike's handlebars.

"Brace yourself on them."

Dean does.

"Spread your legs."

Dean does.

The body's heat announces the man's closeness, but he doesn't touch Dean. "I'm going to make you feel good."

Dean nods. It's what he hopes. Isn't it? It is. That he'll feel better, good. That maybe this fucking anxiety will go away. He doesn't listen to that traitor's voice that's telling him it's all bullshit. And then there's the first swipe of the cat-o'-nine, preceded by a draft of cold air, and every voice, conscious and not, drowns with the surprise of it.

Long, sinuous fringes of soft leather, and Dean feels each of them. Embracing the muscles of his back, spanning to his sides and under his armpits, a tickle on his left pectoral when the muscle gets stretched.

It's not even pain, not like Dean knows it, and it's the memory of it that makes him grunt. Whips weren't made of this supple leather, in Hell. More like corded sinews, sometimes innards, pearly white and thin as thread, interlaced and dried up, kept limber with the fresh blood of the souls on the racks. Hours and days spent preparing them at the light of the fire, with his feet burning and his hands slippery with guts and gore, it was so fucking hard working well and fast like Alastair commanded.

Another hit, on his lower back this time, stronger than a caress, and not painful at all. Only barely uncomfortable like a boot tied too fast. Nothing compared to that first time on the rack, each hit agony and chunks of flesh flying away, splats of bloods and other things coming from his gut when the whip worked through every layer of skin and muscle. Dean saw it all, had been aware and bewildered at the same time, until the last drop of life – and flesh – had been splattered on the ground and the last scream had choked in Dean's throat with his last heartbeat.

Chief hits him again, from left to right, and then in counter-tempo, right to left. No discernable rhythm Dean can follow. He supposes it's good, a good flogging. Keeps him guessing and tense. Dean's just disappointed. Bored. The handles are warm against his hands, slick with the sweat on his palms. Slap of his limp cock on the underside of his leg when he shifts back to brace himself better. Jesus, what he's trying to accomplish?

In Hell there hadn't been time for boredom. Not after the hooks, not after that first time with the whip, past the wonder of being re-born, re-made. Body whole, so the whip could crack again. Showed him all the ways they could shrivel his body to nothing; how long it took. Just a matter of the right pressure, or not enough, as it was in some cases. Not enough pressure for so long, a day stretched past its hours, and that precious moment when everything stopped into blessed nothingness got delayed. Later and later.

That pleased Alastair, Dean discovered later, a single perfect memory that comes with a shamed moan and another crack of the whip. He feels it, this time. Chief hits his upper back again and Dean imagines the red stripes of raised flesh, knows exactly how they look. Not enough to hurt, but getting there.

If you learned how to make them, the souls, last, Alastair would pat your head, he'd say, Good boy, and nod in that self-satisfied way of his. Alastair reserved the bright smiles for when Dean failed, though, eagerness at the punishment he could deliver, the lessons. Until Dean had become perfect, through trials and errors, sometime around the second year. Then the bright smiles had been reserved for different, more special occasions.

There's a sort of comfort in revisiting that time. All those years, who was he? A different Dean. Didn't like himself much, but he's never liked himself much. All he's ever been able to do is make stupid sacrifices. Going to Hell, fucking things up. Fucking Sam up. And Sam went to have his walk. _He made a sacrifice and I threw it in his face._ Who made the sacrifice, he or Sam?

Sam's face broke his heart in that bar. Though, if he's being honest, Sam's been breaking Dean's heart since he was born, so tiny and small, until he stopped being all those things and became someone else, _more_ in ways Dean's uselessly trying to wrap his head around.

This, whatever it is, isn't working. Not if he keeps thinking of Sam. Dean moves back, feels his lower back's muscles get stimulated with a new lash, no sign of cramps. Muscles always cramped up in Hell. He could see it, when he'd used the whip himself those first times. Better being distracted by the way human body reacted to the hits instead of listening to the screams. Watch how the muscles hardened and jumped in a way Dean knew was painful. That was before Alastair asked him to be more enthusiastic, gave him tips to make each lash effective.

Dean had learned on a boy of unidentified age, because souls were all young in Hell and never got old; a beautiful boy, because souls were all beautiful, and Hell thrived on tarnishing beauty above all else. On that boy, Dean had learned, and everything had become red like the blood, and black like the flesh, wet splats of it against the walls and on the ground.

A shout with each lash until Dean had felt like passing out because there was no breathing air in the room. Only blood. Only red: in his hair and on his hands, fine mist of it worming itself into his nostrils until Dean had choked on it, fell on the floor and closed his eyes.

Opens them not to a red wall, but to a black ceiling, pulsating with stroboscopic lights, a bearded face Dean can't recognize immediately, until he does. Chief.

"What the fuck ever," he's saying. "You son of a bitch." Other insults even as he's helping Dean to stand from the cold floor in some sort of sitting position. There's fear in the guy's voice and he's so pissed off, oh, yes, he is. Dean wonders if he's in trouble, what happened that he can't remember. But that's the catch. He can't remember, for however long he was down, even if mere minutes, he doesn't know a single thing.

"You wanna make me lose my job? You stupid fucker. Hey, you with me?" A light slap on his chin with a leather-covered hand and Dean remembers clearly he said no touching. Apparently, he says it out loud, because Chief gets even more pissed off.

"You can stick your rules where the sun doesn't shine! Why the fuck didn't you use your safe word, you moron?" All delivered in hushed tones, though, like he's scared of being heard.

"Lemme go," Dean manages to say while he stands. But Chief isn't heeding his protests and maybe that's a good thing because even with the wall to support him, the change in altitude makes the ground shift under his feet. Chief catches him with a surprising gentle hand on his chest until Dean's braced against the wall. Dean's back is sore when it hits it, a deep ache from neck to his numb, cold ass. Dean's heart is beating strong and calm.

"Thanks," Dean says. Single word that sets Chief on a full on ramble Dean's only partially listening to.

"Thanks my ass," he's saying while Dean tries a first step toward the chair. "Jesus God, you didn't even get off on that, you stupid yuppie --"

Reassured, Dean tries a second step, equilibrium coming back fast and he's at the chair where his clothes are folded. Dean puts on his brief and socks. He smelling bad, of sour sweat. "One moment you're moaning like you're ready to come all over the wall and the next you're out like a snuffed candle —"

Dean grimaces and doesn't turn, keeps getting dressed with trembling hands. "Your dick was limp, dude!" Chief hisses, like that's the worst offence of all, and Dean can't help but laugh, first under his breath, then loud, bordering on hysterical when he can't hold his breath anymore. What the fuck kind of name is Chief, anyway?

"Dude, calm down. It's all right—"

"All right?" Disbelief in his tone and a sort of righteous frustration that Dean can't understand. "You're even crazier than I thought."

Dean would have nodded, but he doesn't.

"This… what you did, man, it's not _all right_. Fuck! You used me for your crazy games, but… God, can't you see how dangerous it is?"

Dean would show the dude dangerous, but he can't, so he shakes his head.

"Invest in some therapy, man, because you're fucked up in the head. Next time, you won't be as lucky. You find a son of a bitch and…" Like it's a possibility too horrible to contemplate.

"Yeah, whatever. Thanks for your time." Dean's dressed and wants out.

The guy falls silent on the walk back to the entry door, hovers just on the periphery of Dean's vision, a couple of steps back.

At the door the bouncer smirks knowingly while he opens it. Dean ignores him, inhales the fresh air and rotates his shoulders, revels in the ache there. Sitting in the car's gonna be a bitch. He checks his watch, turns on his phone and finds no calls. He'll give to Sam more time before he calls him. Boy shouldn't be left alone for long.

Chief's following him on the street.

"Hey!" he says, and Dean has to turn. "I'm serious. Don't come back." An intense stare that does nothing to mask that freaked out expression.

Dean doesn't like warnings, even if they come under a blanket of seemingly sincere concern. And why does this stranger care, anyway?

"No chance in hell," Dean says, his tone biting because he's losing whatever good mood he's accomplished, with this constant nagging.

The guy nods. "So we're clear," he says.

"Bye, Chief," Dean says, leaves him there, still staring.

He feels like taking a walk, he feels like burrowing his hands in his pockets and walking for a while. Hopefully, next time he'll be lucky. Find the son of a bitch Chief's so scared of. It's a good thought to contemplate, and he plays lazily with it all the while back to his car.

\--


End file.
